


The Winter Viper REDUX

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: An older, wiser Sansa takes her chance for revenge when the Martells come to court.A rewrite of an earlier work.





	1. The Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I started a different version of this story a year or two ago. It had a soul mark thing going on and my writing was not up to par, but I really loved the characters and the ship so here we are! 
> 
> I’m redoing it without the soul mark/soul mate business. It probably won’t be as long as my other story either. I’m aiming for 30 chapters. Because of that, the pacing might seem quick in the beginning. Also, I am using scenes that I’ve already published in the first version, so some of the first few chapters may seem familiar. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoy it! Or don’t. I always want to improve my writing.

Sansa Stark watched as Bravosi sailors unloaded crates from the sleek ship. They weren’t too dissimilar from the pirate ships Stannis Baratheon had led to Blackwater Bay. She suppressed a shiver at the screams and the burning flesh that still haunted her all these months later. And her stupidity. She’d wagered her wellbeing on a Baratheon victory and lost. Though perhaps leaving with Sandor Clegane would have been more foolish. They couldn’t have survived long in the crownlands and they both would have died at the Red Wedding. Ned Stark had once told her, Robb and Jon that lords and ladies always faced difficult choices. Sometimes, he’d said with a grave expression, there was never a good option. It was very unlikely he ever thought they would use it as prisoners and Kings and whatever Jon was doing at the Wall.

She’d heard rumors. Information flowed freely at the docks. It was simply a matter of comparing the different tales with one another and whatever she already knew to determine the facts. It was easily deduced that Dragonstone was calm; Stannis was busy licking his wounds. The North was not. However, captains refused to go further north than White Harbor. The reasons were not as logical. The weather was treacherous and the wildlings were reaping havoc like never before. It could be because of Winter as well, but there were other rumors. Rumors that many disregarded with laughter. The Night’s Watch and the Wildlings both spoke of the undead rising beyond the Wall. There was also the brother in the throne room with a hand. The sailors spoke of Danaerys Targaryen and her three dragons and how they’d burned down a temple in a faraway city. Something odd was afoot in the world, Sansa was certain of that much. Direwolves and dragons and the dead.

It was no use to ponder such things. Nothing could be done from her gilded cage. She was incapable of everything except perhaps following in Ashara Dayne's footsteps....No. It was no use to think of that either, not until it was necessary.

The sharp sound of boots against stone came from behind her. She didn’t know that gait. Joffrey’s was too languorous, Littlefinger’s too staccato. He was gone to marry her aunt anyway, thank the gods. His lessons were not worth the lingering touches and invasive stares.

Sansa turned calmly to greet whichever tormenter had come. A lean, bronze-skinned man sauntered towards her, a large bald man on his trail. She didn’t bother to hide her shock. The Prince of Dorne had arrived almost a week ago. He’d spent his time out of the Red Keep to both the annoyance and relief of the Lannisters. There was no reason for him to seek her out. There was even less of a reason for Lord Varys, who glided to a stop behind the prince. 

“Princess Sansa,” Oberyn Martell greeted with a bow. His loose tunic was unbuttoned past his chest. The movement caused the orange silk to gape, revealing the sculpted muscles of his torso. Sansa briefly wondered how much his paramour was restricted in her movements. The woman’s dresses were even more revealing than his.

“Prince Oberyn, Lord Varys” she replied, sinking into a curtesy. “Though I fear you are mistaken. My title is only that of lady.”

He cocked his head like a bird of prey. “Your brother was a king, was he not?”

“My brother was a traitor.” Really, the insults to her family had become more tiring than insulting. Sometimes she wished they were more creative. The persistent boredom was just as effective as the constant fear.

The Prince hummed as scrutinized her tall frame. Glittering black eyes, serpent eyes, roamed from the top of her head to the hem of her dress. “How old are you, Sansa Stark?”

“Six and ten.”

“Six and ten and out with naught but a single guard. A beautiful heir to a great house should have a dozen ladies teetering about.”

“Where is your new handmaiden?” Lord Varys asked, speaking for the first time.

 _Probably with my betrothed like the last one_ , she thought bemusedly. “I gave her the evening off. If you’ll excuse-“

“And unmarried as well,” Oberyn continued as if they hadn’t spoken. “Though you are betrothed to your jailor, I hear.”

Sansa looked away, gathering her thoughts. Tyrion was not a cruel man. He was very intelligent and witty and had never treated her with disrespect. He was probably a good man. He was, however, a Lannister. And a dwarf. He was more than a dwarf, yes, but it would be dishonest to say that it was not off-putting.

“Lord Tyrion will be a kind husband,” she said carefully.

Prince Oberyn chuckled without mirth. “Perhaps. He is still a Lannister.”

_What does he want? Everyone wants something but I have nothing left to give._

“I am lucky to have a King as merciful as Joffrey. I am not worthy to join his family.”

“Yes. Every little girl dreams of marrying into the family that murdered her father.” His tone was as sharp as his dark eyes.

It was easy enough for this renowned killer to saunter through the halls in silk and throw insults with every breath. He was a man, a prince. A kingdom with thousands upon thousands of soldiers were at his command. Sansa had none of that.

“I’m afraid I must take my leave. I should like to reflect on my sins.”

“Do you come here to watch the ships sail north? Did my sister stare so forlornly to the horizon, dreaming to be on a vessel to Dorne?”

The sight of the Rhaegar’s children was so gruesome that Sansa knew it haunted her father for decades. He never spoke of the war or the Starks that died in it, but it was the way his jaw clenched when the Martells were brought up that was odd.

“Children are the ones to suffer in war,” Sansa finally said. “Fathers never seem to live long enough to shoulder the consequences.”

Varys bowed his head. “Wise words, my lady.”

Bugger. The spymaster was the last person to break the facade of a foolish girl with.

“Tywin Lannister is the only one to survive all these long years past,” Oberyn said. He still spoke with a cheerful air that belied his dark words. “Have you had the...pleasure...of meeting the old lion?”

She watched a child weave through the busy sailors as she remembered. Tywin Lannister had hardly paid her a second glance. He quickly dismissed her as nothing more than the key to north. A vessel for his legacy. It all took very little work on her part. His brusque, arrogant nature would be his downfall. His struggles with Joffrey mighty have been amusing if so many lives weren’t at stake.

“The Hand of the King does not take pleasure from cruelty like others may,” she said slowly.

“An astute observation, Lady Stark,” Varys said, eyes glinting with curious calculation. She’d seen the look on Littlefinger many times, though the eunuch’s carried no lust in his. That, at least, was a relief. Months ago she’d considered approaching the Spider, but decided against it. He would want something from her and she had nothing to give.

The prince of Dorne hummed in thought. “Is that not worse? To send these sick men to their devious entertainment?”

The Lord of Whispers answered for her, his voice almost too soft for her to hear. “I think it depends on which of the men one is subjected to.”

Sansa turned a blank stare on the eunuch. She did not need sympathy from a man who did nothing to stop the ‘devious entertainment’ the prince referenced to so nonchalantly. The only man who had the courage to do anything was probably dead. She hoped Sandor Clegane was dead. He deserved peace. One of them deserved respite from all their anger.

“Joffrey is a noble, benevolent king,” she recited flatly.

The prince snapped back into a viper. His moods were disconcerting. They shifted from amused to lethal in half a beat. Despite her efforts, Sansa couldn’t resist the intrigue. Which of these personas was the real Oberyn Martell? It was more than plausible that he was not donning a role that each situation seemed to require and he was simply this temperamental.

“Forgive me my lords, but I insist on retiring to my room,” she said in the same tone.

Oberyn bowed, flashing his sculpted, golden chest once more. “Of course, my lady. Would you do me the honor of being my guest at the opening feast this evening?”

“I’m afraid I must attend with my betrothed. It would be-“

“Thrice you’ve said those words. I’m afraid, I fear. There has been a quiet wolf, a wild one, a young one, but never a craven one. ”

A thousand retorts came to mind but she pushed them aside.

“Yet I am the only one left alive,” she said softly.

Everyone forgot forgot about Jon and she let them. He would at least have a chance at life.

Oberyn hummed again. “I will see you at the feast. Until then, Princess.”

Varys inclined his head once more. It would not be the last she saw of him. Oberyn Martell had ripped off her mask in front of one of the worst people imaginable. Though perhaps it wasn’t as terrible as she feared. There was no leverage on her. There was nothing in the world for him to convince her to be one of his ‘little birds’. Only one person would ever call her that.

Sansa spent the long walk back to the Keep calculating. She didn’t bother to don her dreamy, foolish persona. Worry and thought were to be expected from a prisoner. Varys was a threat now. The Dornish were too, she supposed.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Littlefinger’s voice sounded in her ear. She could almost feel his goatee scratch against her cheek. Sansa shuddered at the thought.

The Martells had every right to hate the Lannisters as much as she did. They were powerful enough to face the repercussions of whatever might happen. Names and sigils and dates flooded her thoughts. Her lessons had stopped after her father’s murder and they had never covered anything but the most general facts of Dorne. It would be a long night. 

* * *

Fifty round tables covered with cloths full of roses and lions filled the ballroom, not a stag in sight. Painted shields alternating between houses loyal to the royal couple lined the area. Rose petals covered the floor instead of carpets. It was pretty. Pretty and ridiculous.

Only the couple, their parents and royalty were seated on the dais. Tywin would have made an exception for Jaime, she was sure, but not for Tyrion. Her betrothed looked to be half drunk already and deep in conversation with a beautiful woman with bronze skin. The Grandmaester ogled her bare back with worrying intensity beside her. Where was the Dornish woman’s prince?

“Hello, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa said with a curtesy.

He turned in his seat to look up at her. “Ah, my future wife! Have you met Ellaria Sand?”

The two women dipped their heads in acknowledgment. Ellaria was everything that Sansa was not: short, vivacious, dark of skin and hair. Their dresses were even foiled against one another. Sansa’s purple gown covered every inch of skin she could and Ellaria’s gold one could hardly be called a dress.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, my lord.”

He rolled his mismatched eyes. “Tyrion, please. Ellaria has traded seats with you, my dear, if that’s alright.”

She smiled, the expression not quite meeting her eyes, and settled in across from the two. Sansa listened to their outrageous flirting while she waited. Varys joined soon after, sitting elegantly on her left side. Pycelle edged closer to Ellaria.

Littlefinger would not be here. She could take comfort in that, no matter how close she was to Joff’s stage. As if he could sense her distress, the King caught her eye and winked. Sansa immediately looked away, trying not to vomit on her gilded plate. She would be humiliated tonight somehow, she knew.

Oberyn Martell was particularly late. No one seemed to care or have the spine to say anything about it. He smelled of spice and sandalwood and horse. She hadn’t been riding since before her father was murdered. To be late to Joffrey’s dinner for a leisurely ride! The injustice of it all soured her already sullen mood.

Joffrey and Margaery stood to give pretty little speeches. No one bothered to listen, Olenna Tyrell least of all. The old woman kept rolling her eyes at a lion salt shaker. Finally, false love sufficiently declared, servants brought out the first of seven courses. Sansa picked at her salad, only bringing the lemons up to her mouth.

“Do you enjoy lemons, Lady Stark?” Oberyn asked.

She nodded, hoping he would leave her alone if she did not speak.

“Lemons are one of Dorne’s chief exports. If I had known you love them so, I could have brought some for you.”

“You have a kind heart, Your Highness,” she said, ignoring how the maester choked on his wine at her compliment, “but I am undeserving of such things.”

“Ah, Yes, I forget how noblewomen are mistreated in the capital.”

She didn’t bother to respond. Nevertheless, he continued.

“One of my regrets in life is not exploring the North. I have seen much of the world, but never anything above the Riverlands. I have always wondered if the Northerners really only worship the old gods. Or are the Seven more popular than we believe?”

The bastard was genuinely curious. Sansa took a long drink of wine before she answered. “Only the Manderlys of White Harbor worship the Seven.”

“Barbaric place,” Pycelle muttered with a shudder.

The prince lashed out like a viper. “Do not speak to me of barbarity you old pervert.”

Sansa looked up, begging someone, anyone for help. Varys ignored them all, artfully spreading butter on a roll. Oberyn’s paramour was absolutely delighted. Only Tyrion met her eyes. He spontaneously erupted into a truly perverted tale about a jackass and a brothel. No, he was not the worst husband she could have, but he was still a Lannister. She would die before she gave them Winterfell. She’d sworn it even to the drowned gods.

Sansa didn’t get a break from his neverending curiosity until the sixth course. Silence fell over the hall like snow when servants carried the tallest platters she’d ever seen. Excited whispers echoed throughout the room. She couldn't manage to suppress at Ellaria’s exaggerated eye roll. It would be nothing more than some sort of entree carved and arranged to resemble a rose.

Two men placed the platter in the center of their table. They took great care to rotate the engraved lions to face her. It was then that Sansa broke out in a cold sweat. That wink. Joffrey had winked.

She gripped the arms of her chair, blood rushing to her ears.

Tyrion cursed, his face paling with realization, but they lifted the lid before he could do anything.

Sansa screamed. Not the dainty thing that ladies were mocked for. It was guttural. A scream from a different sort of pain.

Grey Wind’s head was massive. His tattered ears to his neck dwarfed her torso. He had started to rot before they embalmed him. The beautiful, grey fur was patchy and matted. His left eye, once golden, was now crusted and empty from whatever bolt had killed him.

Lady. Lady, lady ladyladylady.

Would Lady have been so big?

Slowly, the strange shrieks coming from her mouth disappeared into frantic breaths. The direwolf's death wound calmed her. It ebbed away the darkness crawling over her vision.

Joffrey was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words. A fast, rhythmic noise pulsed through her ears. She couldn’t hear anything over it.

A warm hand touched her and she jerked to her feet. Her chair fell with a clatter, the sound almost disrespectful in the utter silence. The prince stood too. Sansa shoved out of his hold, her feet twisting on the rose petals. She didn’t need sadness or pity, she needed rage. She needed justice. Vengeance. Fire and blood.

“What? I can’t you hear you!” Joffrey taunted. His green eyes shone with tears of laughter. “I wanted to serve you your brother’s head but they wouldn’t let me. So I got his wolf’s instead!”

She was hardly listening. She couldn’t seem to look away from Grey Wind. He was her pack. The Old Gods had gifted them their direwolves and they had all failed to protect them. Slowly, Sansa reached a hand out to the head.

Someone pushed her hand away. She snapped out of her trance. A steady murmur washed over the crowd in a gentle wave. Joffrey frowned at all of the disapproving faces around him. Joffrey. Joffrey. Joffrey. It was always Joffrey. A sudden image of a massive direwolf ripping his guts out onto the floor seared across her mind.

A shadow fell over her. Prince Oberyn, in all his bronze glory, was somehow as pale as any Stark. She could almost feel the passion burning from eyes.

“Sansa,” he said. “Come, I will take you to your rooms.”

“No.” She could not go back there, back to where Joff could find her. Back where she had hidden the dagger behind her headboard. She did not trust her patience. Not tonight. “No.”

She shook her head, tripping once more as she tried to back away. The prince lunged forward to steady her. She clutched at his sleeves, the beads cutting into her skin. Blue eyes on his black ones, she breathed out two words she desperately hoped he could decipher.

“Black dread.”

He froze, viper eyes widening the slightest bit.

Sansa took advantage and tore out of his grip, ignoring the King’s shouts and the Hand’s opposing orders, and rushed from the room.


	2. The Skull

 

Sansa huddled in the shadow of Balerion the Black Dread. The dark bone absorbed whatever bits of light could make it so far deep into the castle. Robert Baratheon would not have boasted of the dragon remnants hidden within a forgotten cellar and so no one would think to search among the symbols of a dead family for another.

She was done with the Lannisters. If she stayed in the city any longer, she wouldn’t wait until a marriage with Tyrion to slit her wrists with her foraged dagger. There was no one left to save her. She’d rejected the Hound for Stannis and Stannis had lost. Her brothers were killed with treachery. Her sister was dead. Only she and Jon remained, the last two members of a house that had ruled for thousands of years. She’d always known it would come to this. She dreaded it. It was the thought of cutting her own throat, spilling her own blood, the absolute inevitability of it all that kept her up at night. It would have to be a public area. Somewhere her body would be seen before the Lannisters tried to cover it up. She didn’t want to jump out of a tower. She didn’t want her last thoughts to be of her brother’s fear.

The scuff of boots on stone echoed throughout the tomb. Sansa stilled. She‘d found this place over a year ago after the Battle of the Blackwater. Everyone was far too busy to pay any attention to her so she had explored the forgotten passageways of the Keep.

Slowly, carefully, she snuck to the back of the mouth. She used a groove as a foothold to pull herself up on to the jaw and peered around the tooth. It was as wide as she would have been if she weren’t so thin. Oh, the things she would do to have that power! To harness such a beast, to fly on it. To hear the screams and smell the burning flesh.

The man- for those steps were light but obviously male- paused every few feet. If it was another guard, they were more concerned with studying the dragons, just as the first Red Cloak had been. He had appeared hours ago, creaking around the room. He’d stopped in front of Balerion for a long time. Sansa had been too frightened to breath. Then, with a muttered “gods”, he’d clanked away. Now, as the dull light of a lantern came ever closer, she wrapped herself around the skeleton as if she could will it back to life out of sheer desperation.

Oberyn Martell came around a skull almost as large as Balerion. Sansa’s arms nearly gave out in relief. A thin dark cloak made him one with the shadows. A darker shape hovered behind him. A guard or a friend or a lover. Not a Lannister. Never a Lannister with Elia Martell’s little brother.

Sansa climbed back down the monster’s jaw. She stopped to pick up her shoes before she slipped around the thick, black bone.

“I feared you wouldn’t make it,” she said.

His head snapped to the left. Brows furrowed, he strode over with the lantern held out before him.

“I asked long ago what the Usurper did with them.” His voice was still mischievous and sultry, even in the tomb of an age gone past. She watched as he looked out into the boneyard. “I am a scholarly man, after all. It would have been a shame to see such a piece of history destroyed for one man’s grudge.”

They regarded one another curiously. He really was quite handsome. He might have made her nervous if she weren’t so....apathetic. He would have made her blush and tremble once. What a stupid, stupid girl she’d been. And it seemed she was only getting stupider.

“How did you know about this place?” the Prince asked, balancing the lamp on a crumbling beam.

“Arya came back filthy and screaming about dragon skulls one day. I didn’t believe her, of course, until I went on a walk.”

“The Lannisters allow you to peruse the castle at your leisure?”  
“It had been storming for days. Joff was getting bored. It was either risk his cruelty or Tywin’s displeasure. ”

“On your own? Is that safe?” A deeper voice asked.

The brown hood of the cloaked figure fell back to reveal dark blonde hair and blue eyes. Ser Daemon.

“I....had a friend. He protected me. In his own way, when he could. They killed his sister too. I think I reminded him of her.”

“The Lannisters are good at killing brothers and sisters,” Oberyn muttered, his eyes unfocused. He was remembering a time when the skulls around them still hung in the throne room, when small, bloody bundles were lain at Robert Baratheon’s feet.

“As well as lying with them, it seems,” she said softly.

Both men turned their full attention to her. It was staggering. Their lithe, muscled frames held more power than hers ever would. They wouldn’t even need to access that strength to kill her. The Red Viper and his closest friend could give her a long, painful death from an ocean away.

Sansa sent a surge of ice through her spine. She could not be distracted. She could not appear weak. It was not just her life that hung in the balance. This late rendezvous would determine the fate of her house. It would determine the fate of the North.

“Why did you bring me here?” Oberyn asked flatly.

“I will not last in this place much longer,” she said in the same tone. “Today’s entertainment should prove that quite well.”

She dropped his viper gaze to stare back at Balerion. “I will not let him have me. I will die before the Lannisters have a drop of blood in Winterfell. I’ve sworn with my own blood to the old, new, and drowned gods. You swore a vow to protect women when you became a knight. The silliest answer is that I want to believe there is a true knight somewhere in the realm.”

She turned to face him once more. Again, she could not interpret his expression. Sansa smiled sadly to herself as she went on.

“I know you want revenge. They murdered my brothers too. Did you know they stabbed his pregnant wife in the belly? Joffrey had Meryn Trant punch me there as he told me. He said it was so I could feel what she did. He told me to imagine he was doing it to my baby imp. Revenge is not yours alone, my prince. Gregor Clegane has killed more sisters than your own. I know someone who hates him more than you do.”

His jaw clenched and she heard his teeth grinding from a foot away. “I doubt that, my lady.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. There might even be some farmer from the Riverlands who takes the prize. It is not in my power to decide. Just as it is not in yours. Revenge truly isn’t in the power of any man.”

She turned back to Balerion. The prince and the knight joined her on either side.

“You believe the rumors?” Dameon asked.

“I think I was supposed to be a warg.” The confession came in a whisper. The words were more to herself and the dead than them. “Each of Ned Stark’s children were given a direwolf. Even Jon Snow has his. The queen killed mine and my sister’s fled. Arya told me about wolf dreams though. About hunting in the forest. With what I’ve heard of Robb, I think we must have been wargs.”

“I thought them fables,” Oberyn said, eyeing her with the same curiosity he’d had for the skulls.

“The North remembers,” Sansa reminded him. With a start, she realized she’d wrapped her arms around herself. Cursing herself, she arranged herself back into Cersei’s posture. The woman was mad, yes, but she knew how to play the queen.

“Did you know that a man from the Night’s Watch came to King’s Landing?” Sansa asked. “He had a hand in his possession. He said it belonged to a wight that almost killed his Lord Commander. Of course it was rotted to almost nothing by then. Joffrey couldn’t stand the smell long enough to see it, which means it must have been truly pungent if he would turn down something so macabre. We northerners are a superstitious lot; we live in the shadow of the Wall. So yes, Ser Daemon, I believe the rumors of dragons flying once more.“

The men were silent as they contemplated her words. Sansa was patient, allowing them to come to their own conclusions. It would work in her favor if they thought of it themselves. Besides, she was so, so tired.

“Why would I help you? What would I gain? I could carry on with my plan and have my revenge before this ridiculous wedding is over,” Oberyn said.

“Your life,” she answered, turning to face him. “Whatever you had planned to do, you will die. You have too much to live for Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, Father of the Sand Snakes. It is an insult to those like me to throw away a life of such freedom. Our queen will agree. If Danaerys Targaryen is even half as beautiful as they say, she is a lonely girl surrounded by greedy men. We are both young women usurped by the Lannisters and forced to live far from home. Shackled in a way that you will never be. I know I do not have money or power. I am the heir to an usurped kingdom, to a broken and arid kingdom on the cusp of winter. But the North remembers. Help put it back to rights and it will always answer Dorne’s call.”

The Red Viper blinked once, twice, and then looked away. Sansa swallowed the bile fighting its way up. It was a gamble to confront him, but she really had nothing left to lose. After an eternity of nothing except rats scurrying and water dripping, he spun to glower down at her. The lantern flitted with his sudden movement.

“And if I refuse? What then?”

“I will slit my throat at the wedding feast.” She ignored their strangled cries. “You will do something stupid in the chaos. Someone will die. There will be a trial by combat and then you will die. Passion and poison are nothing against a man that can cut halfway through a stallion’s neck in one swing.”

The prince ground his teeth, the veins in his neck close to bursting.

“You would let them win?!” He demanded.

“No one but a Stark can hold the North. Yes, the Boltons will try, but the simple truth is that Northmen follow strength. They’ll never listen to a betrayer, especially a man that murdered his liege lord under guest rights. And winter is coming. No one has ever invaded the North. And I’ve heard talk of restless Wildlings at the docks. The Lannisters need me if they want to keep seven kingdoms.”

The Dornishmen regraded the northerner with a wary regard. Players of the game. A pawn that had leveled up and the silent threat waiting to strike. The snakes and the wolf. The suns and the snow.

“We’ll have to marry,” Oberyn finally said.

She knew that. She wasn’t a complete fool.

“It must be now. Are you sure you’re up to it?” He snapped.

Sansa raised her chin in challenge. As if an elopement frightened her. Seven hells, what a romantic proposal.

The prince nodded shortly and began whispering rapidly to Daemon. He removed his cloak and scurried off into the shadows. Sansa and Oberyn watched him go in a tense silence.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” She asked. “You’re already married in a sense. Will she-“

He closed the gap in one stride, gathered her hands in his and held them to his chest. She was so tall that he didn’t have to bend to meet her gaze.“Ellaria is the mother of my children. I have spent many years with her. She pulled me out of a darkness that you are flirting with. We both knew I might marry one day. It is simply part of being a prince. I love Ellaria, but that does not mean I will not love you too someday, if you let me.”

Sansa made to step away, suddenly uneasy. The man that would be her husband before daybreak did not let her go. He kissed her knuckles and rubbed his thumbs over her fingers.

“Such elegant hands,” he murmured, his breath hot on her skin.

She wanted to shiver. She should have shivered. She should not have felt so empty. She was eloping, running away with the Red Viper. It would either be her salvation or her destruction, yet she could not bring herself to care.

The prince stared at her for so long that she swayed on her feet. She was so very tired. Finally, he sighed and dropped her hands.

“Come, my bride. Flea Bottom awaits.”

* * *

Oberyn Martell shoved his bride in a back alley brothel and left without a word. A woman with her long braids ushered Sansa into the nearest room. No one spared a glance at two dirty, cloaked women scurrying around. 

The woman flitted around the room, cursed, made to sit on the bed, thought better of it, and cursed again. She was rather tall, as tall as Sansa. The beads in her braids clinked with each hurried step.

“My lady?” Sansa asked trepidatiously.

The woman jumped as if she’d forgotten Sansa was there. Who exactly had Oberyn entrusted her to?

“Oh, Princess, forgive me.” She curtseyed. It was graceful even in her evident fear. Certainly, high born then. “I am Lady Ximena Gargalen. You may call me Jimma.”

“What are we doing here?” Sansa demanded.

“I...We are to wait for a septa.”

“A septa?”

“Yes....Princess-“

“Here? A septa is coming to fetch us here?”

He’d sold her out. Traded her for a chance at revenge. No septa would step foot on the Street of Silk, let alone in a dilapidated brothel that looked as though it could crash to the ground under a strong gust of wind.

A blizzard of rage and determination washed away the indifference that had soaked into her bones. She would not let Joffrey have her. She was out of the Keep at least. That was the first step. She’d incapacitate her new jailor, search her for weapons and valuables, then find her way through the city. Perhaps go to one of Littlefinger’s establishments if really came down to it. Were the men at the outer gates looking for her yet?

Sansa began her own circle around the room, searching for anything to use as weapon. There was a bed, a rickety stool, and a basket of ‘clean’ linens. She’d have more luck knocking her out with the stool than strangling her with the sheets. So be it, then.

The stool was in her hands, Lady Jimma’s dark eyes widening, when someone rapped on the door three times. The woman’s fear was genuine. With a short, hard nod, Lady Jimma pulled a dagger from within her billowing cloak and marched to stand beside Sansa. Together, they raised their weapons, bodies tense with anticipation.

The handle turned.

The door creaked. She raised her stool.

Suddenly, without any good reason, Sansa thought of her dead uncle Brandon; a brawny version of her father grinning at her, the last Stark in a filthy whorehouse, naught but a ramshackle stool between them and death.

A small grey figure slipped into the room. It closed the door. Then froze.

“What in the bleeding hells is going on?” A pleasant soprano voice asked.

The stranger ripped off their hood. A beautiful young blonde gaped at the both of them. In Sansa’s imagination, Uncle Brandon’s grin widened.

“Tyene?!” Lady Jimma cried.

“Of course, who else would it be?!”

“I....Daemon said a septa was com-.....oh seven hells! Why didn’t he just tell me to wait for you?!”

“Because Daemon is an idiot.” The blonde girl turned her harsh gaze to Sansa. “Didn’t my father tell you to wait for me?”

Sansa nearly dropped the stool. She made a show of sitting it down to gather her thoughts.

“No,” Sansa replied. “He shoved me in here without a word.”

The girl sighed. “For such a clever man, he can be quite the fool. I am Tyene Sand. Do not expect me to call you mother.”

How could she be so nonchalant? Did this girl not understand the risks they were taking?

“Why were you confused with a septa?” Sansa asked.

“I’ve been playing at one, spying at the Sept of Baelor. One might think I was surprised to read that my whore-mongering father required a septon for a covert wedding but my standards are terribly low.”

Sansa wasn’t sure if that was an insult. She wasn’t sure if she gave a damn. Before she could work out a response, the girl pulled her grey hood up once more.

“Come on, then. Off to commit treason.”

Together, the three women stepped out onto the bright streets of Flea Bottom. Women danced, men laughed, and musicians warred for attention. It was a chaotic, rancid place. Still, there were a freedom in their lives that Sansa would never have. It was her duty to protect these people, whether it be from poverty, themselves, or a mad boy king. She watched everything with wide eyes as Tyene Sand led them through the maze of crooked streets.

The sept was the grandest structure in all of flea bottom, meaning the walls and the roof were not in disrepair. It was dark and silent. Only two men lounged against the building. The candlelight caught on their golden hands, revealing their Dornish heritage.

He’d done it. It was happening.

She could feel her heart beating down in her fingertips. Years. Years of waiting and she was free.

The three of them crossed the pockmarked street leisurely. They bowed their heads to the stationed men as if greeting a neighbor.

Sansa’s stomach dropped when they finally crossed the threshold. Ellaria Sand was lighting candles on the alter. Her short, curvy figure was silhouetted in the warm glow. Behind her, the statues of the Seven were mismatched, giving the shrines a charming and sincere aura.

Her marriage was doomed. Tall, thin, broken Sansa could not compare to the warm image Ellaria projected.

“Tyene!” Ellaria cried, holding out her arms for her gooddaughter.

_My husband’s bastard is already another woman’s gooddaughter. If Mother could see me now...._

Lady Jimma sensed her discomfort. Her beads chimed as she turned to pat Sansa’s hand. In the light, her beauty was more evident. She had the skin, hair, and lips of a summer islander with lighter eyes of a Westerosi. “Do not look so dire, Princess. The Prince is a good man.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

The lady frowned at her. “Nonsense! Tell me one good thought.”

Sansa studied the room as she thought. Littlefinger sometimes played these sort of games with her, though they did not involve good thoughts. Someone had taken great effort into carving the Stranger’s shrine out of dark stone. Despite the heaps of random offerings, the room was as clean as a well used building in the slums could be.

Sansa tried to make herself imagine that she was eloping with her betrothed prince in a foreign city. It didn’t make her any less grim. Truthfully, the fact that she had to try to pretend made it that much worse. There was also the small fact that her husband’s paramour, the mother of some of his bastard daughters, was to serve as a witness did not settle her empty stomach any more.

“I suppose I go well with the venue.”

Ellaria caught her eye at that. Almost awkwardly, Tyene and Lady Jimma sidled off to sit in a pew. Even the pews did not match. One was a knobby driftwood and the one across from it was smooth, worn oak. 

Steeling herself, Sansa joined Ellaria in front of the Mother’s statue. This section had more practical offerings than the others. The two of them studied a sketch someone had hung above it.

“I do not blame you,” the paramour finally said. “I’ve been telling him to do something about you.”

Sansa hadn’t known that. She studied her groom’s lover. Ellaria was more attractive than beautiful. Even in her late thirties she did not seem tired despite the late hour. Her gown was simple and elegant, if a little more revealing than what Sansa was used to.

“I’ll won’t keep his daughters from him,” she found herself saying. “My mother....I loved her very much, but she had her faults. She treated Jon Snow horribly.”

They both knew it would be different for his paramour if they ever went north. The northerners didn’t rely on propriety, but polygamy was something else entirely. Oberyn would have to act as the Lord of Winterfell for years at least. Long enough for Sansa to solidify herself as a worthy ruler.

Ellaria spoke softly. “Oberyn would never allow-“

Whatever Ellaria was going to say was cut off by the door opening. Three men rushed inside, one of them half dragged by the first. Oberyn shoved an old man more stooped than Pycelle at the altar before he slung off his dirty cloak and replaced it with a finer one. The groom’s cloak. She swallowed nervously. The orange silk would wash out her pallid complexion, but she’d take it over Lannister crimson any day.

“Where in seven hells did you find this one?” Ellaria stared at the old septon with her eyebrows nearly in her hair.

“Watch your mouth. I’m not in the hells yet, girl,” the old man said in a voice as strong as an ox.

“Who are you?” the paramour asked.

“Septon Mors,” Oberyn answered. “A septon that disagrees with his superior’s loyalty to Lannister gold. I’ve promised him safety in return for his service.”

The septon spat. “More like delayed my death for another week. I’m an old man. I’ve decided I might like to be remembered for something.”

“The High Septon does glint a bit more than a holy man should,” Tyene called.

“Ha! You’d think he’d have learned from the last one.”

“What happened to the last one?” Lady Fowler asked.

“I watched him get ripped apart in the riot.”

Everyone cringed at Sansa’s nonchalant confession. She stared back at them all blankly.

“Found him in ten pieces I heard,” the Septon muses. Fed Flea Bottom for a month.”

“I don’t know about my bride, but I would rather not have cannibalism as part of my wedding vows, Septon,” Oberyn drawled.

“What do you want in the vows if not that?” The septon’s fine hair swayed with every move of his head.

“Something short,” Oberyn retorted as he crossed the room. “Princess?”

Sansa hesitated, but placed her hand in his. Their contrasting skin looked beautifully peculiar beside one another. She found that her mouth was dry and she couldn’t look anywhere but down at the septon’s swaying white hair.

“Alright then. Cloak her.”

With swift, precise movements, Oberyn removed her dirty cloak and passed it to Daemon. They would need it to sneak back to the townhouse. He then removed his own cloak and clasped it at her neck. She gulped when his fingers brushed against her skin.

The Red Viper was notorious for his promiscuity. Would he be kind to her at the bedding? Would he take her however he wanted her? He may be vengeful, but he did not seem to be cruel. Then again, Joffrey had seemed sweet and kind as well. 

“My lords, my ladies,” the septon proclaimed sarcastically. Tyene curtsied with a dramatic flourish. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul now and forever.

"Let it be known that Lady Sansa of the House Stark and Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell are one heart, one flesh, and one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

He pulled a long strip of muslin out of his robes.

It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right. It should have been Greatjon Umber officiating at the Heart Tree, the white bark painted pink in the sunset. Mother should have been crying, Rickon and Arya and Bran bored, Robb proud, and Jon smiling in his soft way.

All Sansa had was the imagined ghost of a long dead uncle. Thousands and thousands of years and this was what the Starks had been reduced too.

The Septon caught on her to rage. His clear lilac eyes met hers. She stared at him in defiance. He finished the speech without looking away.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two people, binding them as one for eternity."

He unraveled the linen and placed back in his pocket. It was suddenly, terribly silent. No one knew what to do. Oberyn moved first, throwing his roughspun cloak over his shoulders. He kissed the crown of Tyene’s head, then moved as if to embrace Ellaria as well. He didn’t, thank the gods. Indifferent as she was to the whole farce, watching her husband kiss another woman at their wedding would have been mortifying.

He spoke to the room at large.

“We can not leave here at once. Daemon, Tyene and I will continue our preparations. Ellaria, Jimma and S-“

He inhaled deeply, meeting her eyes for the first time in hours.

“And our new princess will go next, followed by two guards and then you, Septon Mors, will be escorted by the last of our men. Any questions?”

Sansa had quite a few. They would only antagonize the Prince further though  

“Then farewell. I shall see you all in the Throne Room in four hours.”

What a morning that would be. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the door slam behind them.

The old septon lowered himself on the driftwood pew. Lady Jimma hovered nearby, as if unsure as to whether her support would be appreciated. All Sansa could think of was Joffrey’s reaction. His rage. It would be Ser Meryn. Meryn liked it the best so his were the worst. Sandor would not be there to stop him or carry her back to her rooms. This was a-

“Girl, join me,” the Septon barked.

Sansa worked on taking deep breaths and not going into one of the fits she suffered in the beginning of her stay at King’s Landing. The panic would overtake her senses and leave her breathless and exhausted. She could feel the pain pressing against her breastbone as a warning.

“Targaryen?” Sansa asked, trying to distract herself.

“Dayne,” Septon Mors replied. “We shed our past lives when we take our vows but when Princess Elia’s little brother asked me for help, I could not resist the call of the sun.”

“This must not have been what you expected.”

“No but I daresay I will remember it for the rest of my short life.”

Ellaria appeared, thrusting a parchment and quill under Sansa’s nose. It put her in mind of something Shae would do. Seven hells, Shae would have killed her for doing all this. Sansa took them, signing beside Oberyn’s impatient scrawl.

“Am I signing my death warrant or a marriage certificate?” She wondered aloud.

The Septon barked out a laugh.

“You are a princess of Dorne now. They cannot touch a hair on your pretty head,” he assured her.

Sansa passed the document back. Ellaria left to sprinkle salt and seal it.

“No one can protect anyone.”

The Septon scoffed. “If you truly believed that you would not be here.”

Sansa shrugged. “I owe it to my family to try. I know what I must do if it fails.”

He clucked his tongue. “What would your tree gods say to that?”

“I wouldn’t know. Your faith burned mine down a millennia ago.”

The septon’s wrinkled face broke into a wide grin. “Oh yes. You’ll do just fine.”

“Princess?” Lady Jimma called. “It is time for us to leave. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Sansa bowed her head in respect to the old man before she followed her new companions out into the city. It would either be the last night of her old life or the first of her new one.


	3. The Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola! There are some lemons in this chapter. If you don’t want to read them, skip to the end when he yawns and says it’s time to go to bed.

Oberyn was not at the townhouse. Foolish though it might have been, Sansa had hoped for a familiar presence. The night sky was fading into a rich blue when they slipped through the side door. Dark hands ushered Sansa up a narrow, winding staircase, down an airy corridor and into a rich bedroom. Floor to ceiling windows made up the eastern wall. The shutters were open to reveal a lush courtyard that conjoined with the vast wall of the keep. Even here Cersei towered over the last Stark.

Her handmaidens were dressed in loose orange dresses that highlighted the bronze tones of their skin. Their drooped shoulders and bloodshot eyes were less flattering. Sansa recalled that Lady Fowler had the maids take in one of her gowns. They couldn’t have slept more than an hour.

“I’m sorry. You must be exhausted,” Sansa said.

The shorter one, who had a button nose and golden strands in her curly hair, gave her a bright smile. She dipped into a deep curtesy. “Not a word, Princess.”

Princess. She’d dreamed of being a princess. Most girls did. Surely even Arya had fantasized about being a young Nymeria with a circlet in her hair and a sword in her hand. Now Sansa knew what being a princess meant. It was another target on her back, more responsibility. The well-being of two kingdoms now rested on her shoulders. The North was ruined. What would she do to Dorne?

“Sansa, please.”

“Alright, Sansa Please,” she said with a teasing grin. “I am Tia and this is Parvati. Could you turn so we can undress you?”

Princess Sansa Please grimaced, but obeyed. They unclipped the dragonfly clasps from her bodice and sat them aside. They unwrapped her purple dress, eyes catching on a scar. Dutifully, the girls said nothing and began folding the garment into a neat square.

“No, don’t. It’s filthy and too short. It isn’t worth the work to scrub it.”

“Yes, Princess,” Parvati said quietly. She was taller and had smooth black hair braided down to her hip. They looked like something out of a song. That couldn’t bode well at all.

The double doors opened. Ellaria and Lady Fowler breezed in with their hands full of jewelry and silk. Tyene was nowhere to be found and Sansa did not ask. One Sand was enough.

“Go get a nap in girls. You’ve worked very hard. The gown is lovely,” Ellaria said.

The maids glanced at one another shyly.

“We’d prefer to stay,” Tia said. It was interesting that the girls looked into their ladies’ eyes. Most of the girls in the Red Keep were frightened of every shadow. “It would be an honor to dress the Princess for her first presentation.”

“Princess, what would you prefer?” Lady Fowler asked.

The morning wasn’t important enough to raise suspicion by barring someone’s spies from an event. The girls had to belong to someone, whether a Martell or a Lannister. It wouldn’t be wise to ruffle feathers less than an hour after her marriage.

“You may stay if you wish.”

With a short nod, Parvati immediately began unlacing her corset. The other girl started working on her knotted braid. Sansa didn’t tie her corset as tight as was proper but there was still a simple satisfaction in removing it. She was still relishing in the small freedom when she heard a barely concealed gasp.

Sansa opened her heavy eyes. All the women were staring at her body, the slip forgotten at her feet. She was naked except for her smallclothes. Subconsciously, she raised her hands to cover her breasts. It made no difference. They were staring at how her pale skin was struggling against each rib, how sharp the bones of her hips had become, the yellowing bruises on her thighs, and the small set of scars on her back.

“Should I find another dress?” Lady Fowler whispered.

“Nothing else will fit,” Ellaria hissed back.

“Is that wise? Oberyn is upset enough as it is. When he sees-”

“Don’t you think I know? I know him better than anyone...”

Better than me, you mean. Sansa took it upon herself to get into the tub while the women bickered.It was a strange competition, Sansa mused. Ellaria was older, wiser and infinitely sexier. She exuded lust with every step even though she was never the most beautiful woman in the room. She’d birthed his daughters and cared for the ones she hadn’t. Sansa, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what qualities she had to offer Oberyn other than her name. He was a scholar and a warrior. All she knew about herself was that she enjoyed dressmaking and dancing. She doubted the Red Viper shared her passion for embroidery. 

“We will have to wash your hair when you return. It will not dry in time for court,” Tia said as she draped the long red locks over the edge of the brass tub.

“Cersei won’t be paying much attention to my hair anyway.”

“No, she will not. We are going to ensure that all anyone sees is how they have mistreated you.”

“On the contrary Jimma, it’s quite unnecessary. They know all too well of my mistreatment. They watched most of it happen.”

Sansa leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. It was painted with pretty pink clouds and seagulls. A beautiful lie. The true nature of the city was vicious.

“Joffrey had me stripped and beaten when Robb was victorious on the field. My brother was a prodigy of sorts. He won every battle, you know. In the end he was stupid enough to lose it all.”

Ellaria cursed in a tone that reminded Sansa of Shae. She missed the petite girl and her impertinence. Pain flashed through her arm and Sansa jumped, splashing water onto the pale floor. Ellaria loomed over her, her nails dug into deep into her arm that rested on the tub.

“Your brother was a fool. He disrespected the Freys by marrying the foreign girl but what happened to him was unforgivable. The gods will have their blood or we will take it ourselves. Forgive your brother, but never forget all that they have done.”

Sansa felt light enough to fly up into the pink clouds. To have someone speak of her brother, of any of her family, as anything other than vermin had not happened in years. The lie, the excuse of traitor’s blood was on the tip of her tongue, but she kept it down.

“Come,” Ellaria said more gently. “We’ll dry your tears with the rest of you. It’ll take all day to get those tangles out, wash or no.”

She wasn’t too far off the mark. Sansa was not ready to leave until the sun had already begun climbing the sky. She examined herself in the mirror curiously.

Her auburn hair was braided in a crown with a few wisps pulled out to frame her face. Gold trim from one of Oberyn’s tunics was weaved into it, glinting in the sunlight when she moved her head. The girls had powdered her face to hide the dark circles under her eyes and lined her lids with coal. Her full lips were painted wine red. The dress was plain but elegant and dramatic. A deep emerald silk, it was the most revealing thing she’d ever worn. There was no back whatsoever. Two strips of fabric joined at her neck were all that held up the garment. They flowed like water to barely cover her breasts and meet just above her navel before the skirts pooled around her feet. A long slit revealed a glimpse of her thigh when she walked.

Ellaria lent her a bronze snake armlet and fashioned one of Oberyn’s necklaces in an interesting fashion. The pendant, a black crystal of some sort, was nestled in to the hollow of her throat and the length of the unclasped chain was cold against her spine.

She looked, she surmised, like a foreign witch from a children’s tale. She looked more beautiful than she had felt in years. She looked like a woman.

Ellaria’s eyes glittered when her reflection appeared. She wore a yellow gown and gold jewelry carrying the snake motif.

“You look like the second most powerful woman in the realm.”

Suddenly full of trepidation, Sansa spun away without a word.

* * *

Sansa Stark walked into the throne room with ten spears at her back. It was a remarkable difference from the day before. Only yesterday she was a prisoner of war.

She didn’t push the image of the Grey Wind’s rotting head away. She seared it into her mind. The obscenity became fuel instead of fear. The Princess of Dorne moved calmly, ignoring the building whispers that ricocheted off of the ceiling and walls. She’d made the same walk before a hundred times, but she’d never heard them whisper in awe. Wildfire sparked and licked its way through her veins.

Oberyn watched her approach with the most nefarious grin she’d ever seen. She let her own smirk show through the cold persona. This would be a small retribution compared to the injustices they had faced, but the first revenge of many. She was so intoxicated with his grin that she didn’t realize when she reached the throne’s stairs. She’d begged and bled here so often.

Oberyn strode to her, cupped her face with his hands and pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the left corner of her lips, then the right, close as he could get to her mouth without smudging Parvati’s meticulous work. The wildfire became a storm. It was energy and fire and want. A want for him. A want for blood. She’d only felt this once, just before she’d made to push Joffrey off the battlements all those years ago.

When he pulled back and saw her ravenous expression, Sansa thought he might take her in the middle of the throne room. Men stole glances at her often enough, some even openly stared, but not like this. Not like they would consume every drop of her being and leave her begging for more. He licked his lips, stepped away, but intertwined their fingers.

“Your Grace,” Oberyn announced loudly. The room went silent. “May I present my new wife, Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell and Princess of Dorne.”

Sansa curtsied as much as the tight gown would allow. She let her gaze drift up the stairs. Tywin was first. Oddly, he never sat higher than was necessary. His thin lips were pressed together so hard she wondered if they would ever part.

Up, up, up, she looked, trying very hard not to smile. When she saw how red Cersei’s face was, she had to bite the inside of her cheek. The Queen Mother was furious. Cersei had different levels of anger. Mere annoyance was a subtle eye roll. True rage was a beaming smile and silent fantasies of the receiver’s long death. Then there was an eruption of vehemence that was reserved for Sansa and Margaery, both of whom were secretly proud of the accomplishment. 

The joy Sansa had taken from Cersei’s rage fluttered and dropped when she looked at the king. He was his mother’s son. Most thought incest the cause for his madness, but Sansa knew better. The boy might have had a chance if a Baratheon had taken him from his mother’s clutches. Instead, his insane tendencies had been all but encouraged. She genuinely wondered what Tywin Lannister thought he could do with him. They would all be very lucky if their mad king didn’t start a war before lunch.

Oberyn squeezed her fingers. She was not alone. Dorne was at her back. The crown could not afford a war with Dorne.

The tension in the room grew until it became a living thing that boiled against their skin. Then, like a petulant child, Joffrey whined, “Lady of Winterfell? Winterfell is already mine.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry with anticipation. Her husband, however, didn’t hesitate. He spoke the words that had frozen in her chest.

“So you admit to colluding with the Freys and Boltons to break the divine law of guest right and in doing so murder a hundred men during their liege lord’s wedding?”

“Of course not,” Tywin snapped, but the cunning old man wasn’t looking at the Red Viper. He was scrutinizing his wife in a new light. Sansa was no longer the meek damaged girl from the night before. Lannister arrogance would be their downfall. They paid no mind to anyone other than themselves for they believed no one else could be half as intelligent, ambitious, or beautiful. “You told me you didn’t know where she was.”

Oberyn pulled Sansa into his side, running his fingers down her waist. It simultaneously calmed and unnerved her. She never showed that part of her skin. She’d never had anyone touch it.

“I didn’t at the time. I soon after found her hiding behind a miniature of Baelor the Blessed not three halls from her rooms. There’s a hidden door nestled into the side. She was upset after yesterday’s incident-“

“Weak girl,” Joffrey spat. “Who could ever fear a wolf?”

“You,” Sansa said, staring into his bloodshot eyes. His rage gave him the look of a drunkard. Another wave of shame crashed over her. How had she ever thought him handsome?

“LIES!” He was halfway off his throne. It took an impressive amount of control to stay seated, but his fear of physical confrontation was most unfortunately too powerful for him to do something stupid.

Oberyn tutted. “I think my wife’s back proves her statement. You have intended nothing but harm of every kind to her. Do you know of the man your father killed, Your Grace?”

The question was worded so beautifully. Jaime was the Kingslayer, but Robert had overthrown the Targaryen dynasty. If he were corrected, Oberyn could simply say he was referring to the Usurper. If he didn’t reply that he indeed meant Jaime Lannister. It was something he was reckless enough to say.

“Of course,” Joffrey scoffed with a sneer. “He killed the Mad King and-“

“What of your promise of betrothal to my son, girl?” Tywin boomed, cutting across his grandson.

“What of your promise of justice for my sister?” the Prince hissed.

“Oh, Father,“ Lord Tyrion drawled. He came to stand beside Sansa in a dark doublet. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he he’d forsworn Lannister red quite a while ago. “I daresay our betrothal was more of an insult than her elopement. To waste such a beauty on the likes of me is an insult to the gods themselves!”

Sansa was surprised to see him in attendance. She assumed he’d be avoiding his family, though it was possible he’d been forced to endure their presence because of her disappearance. Something he’d much rather be celebrating with a bottle of arbor red.

When the uneasy laughter had died down, Sansa looked down at the man that could have been her husband. She had the sudden urge to defend the Lannister, the man whose family had so much Stark blood on their hands. “The insult was not in your stature. You are the kindest and most intelligent man I’ve met and probably the bravest man in this room.”

“Brave?! The imp?!” Joffrey cried. “He’s half a man! He can’t be the bravest.”

“The Imp didn’t run during the Battle of Blackwater,” Sansa pointed out.

Joffrey pushed himself off the throne, a blade missing his wrist by an inch. Oberyn pushed Sansa behind him and pulled a knife out of seemingly nowhere. In the same moment, the spearmen behind her shifted forward. A few people discreetly snuck out through side doors. They would be punished later, lowered several rung on the ladder to power and riches.

Tywin caught the King by his tunic and shoved him back. It was an impressive feat for a man of the Hand’s age. The corralling Kingsguard faltered. Their dull minds couldn’t choose a course of action. Ser Barristan would not have hesitated for a moment. He would have had Lord Tywin on the floor in the blink of an eye and at be at Oberyn’s throat the next.

“I think it is time for you to retire for the day, Prince,” Lord Tyrion suggested weakly.

“A pity,” Oberyn ground out. “We had not said all we came to say.”

“I’m sure, but for the sake of the realm, please.“

Oberyn cast a long, lingering gaze at Tywin and spun on his heel, dragging Sansa along by the wrist.

* * *

Oberyn took her to another small mansion on the other side of the city. It was much closer to the docks. The architecture and decor were much more plain but no less luxurious. Silently, he pulled her through the sitting room, a parlor, and finally into a bathhouse.

Maids were lighting candles and arranging a tray of food near the furthest edge. Upon their arrival, they bowed hastily and hurried away. The room was small and humid. Plants lined the walls, further emphasized by the fact that they were the first piece of decor she’d seen in the building. Oddly cut mirrors and the low ceiling exaggerated the sense of otherworldliness. The pool was square and sprinkled with rose petals. In the midday darkness, it could almost be one of the springs in Winterfell.

“I thought....” Her voice faltered. She was so completely overwhelmed.

He ran his thumb over her wrist. Sansa stepped out of his reach, feeling guilty at his wince.

“I ordered this house prepared for the two of us last night. I wanted to get to know my wife in privacy. The household was to move in tomorrow, but with the way things went, they will be more secure here.”

Sansa nodded. “I understand.”

“They won’t be back until much later. The ladies are spending the day in the city.”

“Will they be safe?” She asked, looking everywhere but at her new husband.

“They are guarded well.”

“Good.”

A few beats passed while Sansa worked to calm herself. That intoxicating storm from the throne room had yet to disappear. She was drunk on it.

“Would you join me, my lady?”

She took a shaky breath and nodded. Oberyn muttered a curse and gripped her shoulders. Her stomach did several flips as his eyes pierced hers.

“I do not expect anything from you. I will wait until you are ready. I only wanted to treat you to-“

“No.”

He stepped back immediately, ceasing all touch with her. She was suddenly cold.

“They will ask for proof. We do not have a choice in the matter.” Then, before he could speak, she blurted, “But a...a bath sounds wonderful. I’m very tired.”

He chuckled. “We’ve had a long night.”

The only sound was the trickling water as the newlyweds studied one another. Oberyn’s gaze was far less calculating than Sansa’s. He made a slow perusal of her body, his eyes lingering on her curves. He closed the distance between them and tapped on the crystal at her throat.

“Do you know what this is?” He asked as he stared down at her.

“No,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She licked her lips. Their noses almost touched when his eyes dropped to follow the movement. She felt like a mouse in a trap.

“It is a type of kohl mined in Essos. It’s harmless enough until ingested in a large quantity.”

“How large?”

“Oh, say half of that pretty pendant crushed into powder and stirred into a jug of ale.”

Her lips rounded into silent oh. He grinned and spun her around without warning. She gasped, leaning into his grip to keep from falling.

“Easier said than done,” he went on, his breath warm on her neck. He traced the chain down the length of her spine, raising the gooseflesh along her arms. “It has a bitter taste and darkens the drink, so the victim would need to be too drunk to truly taste the difference.”

He unclasped the necklace and sat it aside. His rough hands slowly continued tracing the curve of her waist, the tips of his fingers slipping underneath the silk each time they reached her hips.

“That crystal is best delivered over time with a steady dose. With enough luck or an incompetent maester, it could be mistaken for a sickness.”

He played with the dress ties, teasing her and tripling the number of butterflies in her stomach. _Though_ , she figured, _I am nearly naked in this dress anyway._ Oberyn’s lips pressed against her right shoulder. Another one, then another, until he was making a languid trail to her neck. She sighed, nearly out of her senses with lust, and subconsciously tilted her neck to him. His breath tickled at the sensitive skin there. She shivered, the dress suddenly tight against her breasts. He kissed her just below the ear, his tongue darting out to taste her. Her back arched into him.

He laughed as he squeezed her hips. He set a quick peck on her flushed cheek once, twice, and then lightly pushed her away. Sansa turned to see what he was doing. She gulped when she saw that he was unbuttoning his tunic.

“Undress yourself, Sansa Stark. I will not be able to keep my hands off you if I do it myself.”

She didn’t see how being naked together in the pool would help either, but didn’t mention it. She was, after all, a maiden and he was the Red Viper. She untied the dress and slipped into the pool. It was almost hot, though nowhere near as warm as Winterfell’s springs were. It was surprisingly deep, covering her to the waist. She waded in and skunk down onto the curved bench of the other side.

She almost fell asleep until the water splashed and Oberyn was beside her. He leaned his head back next to hers. He was quite striking. He wasn’t classically beautiful. His nose had a strong curve and his brows were a bit angry, but he was still handsome. It was his wildness that drew her in.

“Will I not be Sansa Martell?”

The apple of his throat moved as he spoke. “No. I am only a second son and you are the last of an ancient house. I would not disrespect such history. In truth, my brother is more worthy of you.”

“That’s foolish. I’m not worthy of either of you.”

His eyes opened. If he was surprised to find her watching him, he didn’t tease her for it.

“I’m the daughter of a ruined house,” she explained, trying to convey that she didn’t say it for pity. She was simply stating the facts. “I am heir to an arid kingdom on the cusp of winter and in the ruins of war. I have no money, lands, or men. It is only my name and my womb that I can offer.”

“Oh, I think you can offer much more than that.”

She watched the water ripple as she drew shapes with her hands as she spoke. “I don’t know what I’m capable of. I’m a good dancer and I can embroider better than most experts. I don’t know what I can do that is useful. I can’t fight or make poisons.”

“I can teach you those if you wish,” he shrugged. “But you have skills of your own that can’t be taught. You put on a good act. You watch and learn. It may sound simple, but you know what to look and listen for.”

“Littlefinger taught me that. You should be more wary of him.”

Oberyn raised a brow. “Are you afraid he might poison me?”

She frowned. “I’m serious. He was nobody. The son of a foreign sellsword and now he controls the second mad king. He’s the most dangerous man in the city. The realm, maybe. He trades flesh and secrets as a living. He....he was infatuated with my mother. I...endured his attentions to learn. Now-“

His eyes became steel. “His attentions.”

“Nothing untoward. Nothing concrete.”

“You do not want them. They are untoward.”

“You’re missing the point. He will not happy. His prize was stolen from him by his betters, yet again, this time another handsome warrior and a prince, no less. Just swear to me you won’t underestimate him, please.”

Oberyn sighed. “I swear I will try not to.”

“It’s not a coincidence that he’s master of coin. He must own half the continent by now.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “Ugh. Can we not spend our wedding night speaking of Littlefinger?”

“Fine. What about cannibalism? We never got it into the vows.”

He laughed. It was a beautiful sound that echoed off the walls and twisted her insides.

“Have you heard of the Rat Cook?” She asked.

“I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a story every child in the North knows. There is a castle on the Wall called the Nightfort. Have you seen the Wall?”

He frowned. “I have seen many things but nothing of the North.”

“I’ve only seen it once. Father took Jon, Robb and I together when we were just children. It’s extraordinary. It’s easy to forget magic isn’t a fable until you see something like the Wall. The Nightfort is one of the oldest castles on the Wall. It’s a cursed place named after the Night King, which is another story. Have you heard that one?”

“No, I have not.”

“I’ll tell it to you sometime. So, an Andal king and his son visited the Nightfort. During his visit, the king slighted the cook. The wrong changes with each telling. At dinner, the cook served a delicious pie. They say the king loved it so much he ate a second slice. When he offered his compliments, the cook laughed and laughed and laughed. Confused, the king asked what was so amusing. Do you know what the cook said?”

Oberyn shook his head. It reminded her of Bran and Rickon riveted by Old Nan.

“He said that the prince was in the pie. The cook had killed the prince and put him in the pie. The gods were furious. They cursed him and turned him into a massive white rat that can only eat his young.”

“Seven hells! You tell this to your children?”

She grinned. “Yes. It has a lesson. The gods weren’t angered because of the pie. They were angry because he’d slain a guest under his roof. It’s a tale of guest rights.”

Oberyn shook his head sadly. “I’m surprised the North hasn’t made pies of the Freys yet.”

“I can bake if you can kill.”

He gave her a savage grin. “I’ve honestly never heard anything sexier.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. She knew she must be blushing as red as her hair. His laugh confirmed it.

“You blush so easily. It is absolutely adorable.”

Sansa blushed even harder as he reached for her. She’d almost forgotten she was naked in the bath with her new husband. Her nerves were unwarranted. He only gave her another chaste kiss on the cheek before he passed her a cloth. After she scrubbed the powder and paints from her face, Oberyn insisted on washing her hair.

“My sister and I were very close,” he explained as he began unpinning the thick braid. “We were inseparable. It led to me becoming a handmaiden of sorts.”

The water made tantalizing trails down his muscled chest. She admired how golden his skin was in the candlelight and the way the muscles moved under it when they worked on another pin. All of this was done discreetly, or so she thought. He winked just before he spun behind her.

“I am a father to a thousand daughters. I am well versed in caring for a woman’s hair.”

“Were you at their birth?”

“Only the youngest, the ones with Ellaria,” he said as he began untwining the hair. The urge to scratch at her poor scalp was overwhelming. “Why do you ask?”

“I think the North and Dorne are more similar than either of us know. Our relations are strained by distance but I think we might have been friends given the opportunity.”

“That distance is probably the reason we would have been friends. Hard lands breed hard people. But what does this have to do with childbirth?”

“Father was there for most of ours. Mother was mortified to have him in the room, but he refused to leave. He said it was the northern way. She was grateful for it in the end. It’s different in the South as I’m sure you know.”

Oberyn massaged the roots of her hair. Her traitorous body did nothing to hide its pleasure. She was sure if she turned around there would be a smirk on his face.

“Robert went on a hunt when Cersei‘s time came,” Sansa remembered aloud. “She didn’t mind. It made it easier for Jaime to be with her. When they told him to leave, he asked how they thought to keep him out.”

Oberyn stilled. He spun her around, his face suddenly serious. “How do you know this? Did she tell you?”

“Yes. It was part of the maiden’s talk she gave me.”

“I can’t imagine what all that entailed.”

“It wasn’t too awful. Blackwater though.... I think you might have laughed at them all.”

“I probably would,” he conceded. Then grimly, he said, “You will have to tell Doran everything that they have told you, everything you have heard.”

She nodded. “When will we leave?”

“As soon as the bedding begins.”

“Ours? Or theirs?”

Oberyn’s gaze grew dark. She didn’t understand why he would be so angry at the jest. Perhaps he didn’t like to think of it as a laughing matter. Before she could apologize, he hoisted her onto the side of the pool. The cool air kissed her skin, but she felt only heat as his eyes consumed her. Propriety demanded that she cover herself, yet the rebellious wolf inside her would have none of it. She wanted to surprise him, to own him.

“Even half starved you are beautiful beyond compare. I’ll want to bury you in the sand when you blossom.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh?”

“You’re far too vain to hide me away,” she teased.

“You wound me.”

And then she was back in the water and his arms.

The storm from earlier that had died down in nerves and uncertainty raged anew. Sansa pressed her lips against his. He froze, only for half a beat, and then his fingers dug into her hips and his mouth devoured hers. When he coaxed her lips open, she twisted her hands in his short hair, pulling him closer. His tongue brushed against hers. Every hair on her body rose to attention. Her soft chest melted into his hard one and he groaned into her mouth. Only the arm curled around her waist kept her upright.

Oberyn pulled away from her with one last nip.

“You taste like oranges,” she said as she licked her lips. Her voice was almost unrecognizable.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m trying to control myself! No! Don’t say it. Whatever is on that delicious tongue of yours, don’t fucking say it. Just lie back and let me wash your hair.”

Sansa, ever the obedient wife, did as she was told. The air still crackled with their desire. It was a room full of fumes that would light with the strike of a match. His fingers massaging into her scalp and combing the oil through the lengths of her hair only made things worse. Warmth pooled between her thighs with each shift of muscle under his skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, only one frighteningly new to her.

Abruptly, she heard herself telling the story of the Night’s King. It was not a tale that inspired lust. When it was over, Oberyn peered down at her with a curious expression.

“I want to go to this Nightfort.”

“What?!”

“Most legends have a kernel of truth. There’s only one way to unravel it. Will you join me?”

“If I don’t, every Stark in the crypts will awake to have my hide.”

“I would like to see them too, if it is not forbidden.”

Sansa mulled it over. It didn’t seem wrong to have him there, but it didn’t feel right either. “The godswood first. Did you know there are hot pools there?”

“No, though I suppose I should have if I knew the castle was built on hot springs.“ He yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “Come. Let us retire. You can wear my small clothes and shirt to bed.”

“Will I need them?”

It took him a moment to understand why she would not need clothes.

“Sansa,” he said wearily. “I will not make you do this now. Or anytime soon.”

“But I want to! They’ll have me examined by tomorrow. Pycelle will take any chance to get his hands on a lady.”

“Has he touched you?”

Sansa laughed bitterly. “He touches every girl he can without suspicion. Even the queen complains.”

His lips twisted in revulsion. “Disgusting old fool. Determining a woman’s soul by a piece of skin between her legs! Ridiculous! Ridiculous. In Dorne, we encourage girls to explore their sexuality before marriage. In Lys they worship a goddess of love and revere prostitutes.”

“Lady Mormont of Bear Island has never married and she has many daughters,” Sansa remembered.

Water splashed as he plopped back down onto the bench.. “I would like to meet this Lady Mormont. She and I will share commiserations on parenting so many daughters.”

His faux misery quickly deteriorated into true anxiety. He ran a hand over his short hair, the muscles in his arms bulging at the movement. Sansa bit her cheek. The small pain grounded her from the pink clouds she’d started to dream of.

“I am not....” he sighed, then muttered a curse before his dark eyes seared into hers. “I am a passionate man, wife. Tywin Lannister says that I have always been half-mad. I will not be able to control myself if I bed you. I cannot suppress what you are not ready for. I cannot lay with you, Sansa, not yet. But there are other ways to lose your maidenhead. It’s just a piece of skin after all.”

Sansa gulped. Just a piece of skin to be removed?! However would he remove it?!

“It needn’t be painful, only uncomfortable.”

A sudden desire for her mother came so strong that bile rose in her throat. Oberyn beckoned her forward with a sad nod, as if he somehow knew what she was thinking. She complied, wading through the pool to stand before him. It was a bit of a shock when he ushered her onto his lap. One hand played with the ends of her hair while the other traced a pattern on her knee. An emotion rose in her, so foreign that it took a moment for her understand what it was.

She hadn’t felt safe in years. For the day, at least, she was safe. No Lannisters would come within five hundred feet of the plaster walls.

She pressed her lips to his cheek, trying to convey her thanks in the kiss. He responded with his own series of kisses; one to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. It had been so long since she’d had any conversation, let alone any affection. To be touched with something other than malice or hunger was unimaginable.That luxury was unbecoming of a traitor.

He deepened the kiss, pulling one of her legs over his lap. His thumb traced the underside of her breast as his fingers dug into her back. His hands were so big! She knew, of course, how large a man’s hands were. She never thought of how they would feel wrapped around her body in a different way. In a way that turned her heart into a hummingbird and warmed her belly.

He kissed her neck, licking up some of the droplets still on her skin. Everywhere his tongue touched turned to fire. Something between a gasp and a moan escaped her as his head reached her breasts. She never knew a man could kiss her there too. She never knew it could feel this way. His tongue swirled, his teeth biting gently on her nipple while he teased the other. Heat pooled between her thighs.

It wasn’t an entirely new sensation. She’d been aroused before, but she’d never had the opportunity to act on it. While other girls giggled about kissing knights, she tried to avoid them altogether. There was no one to sneak away with for the night. No one who wanted her, no one she wanted. Once, she’d wanted a very big, very ugly man, but he had left to make a new life for himself.

Any thought of another man, any thought at all, was scorched away. Oberyn had a hand between her legs, his fingers rubbing at a bundle of nerves. A thousand little lightening storms raged beneath her skin. His chest touched hers as he rubbed his nose down her her neck. The friction was almost painful to her nipples. The lust was almost overwhelming. So many sensations, so much intensity.

Something built from where touched her. It was something slow and steady. When his thumb traced the length of her folds, it intensified. Not faster, but more. The word was a breathy cry.

“More please,” she panted.

Oberyn chuckled. It echoed through her own chest, tickled her throat where had been kissing her ear. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her legs. They kept opening and closing with each breath, like they were unsure what to do with this new sensation.

Something warm slipped inside her. Just a little. She gasped, her back arcing. She opened her eyes to find Oberyn smiling. His finger slid deeper within. It was a strange, pleasurable feeling. He rubbed at something there, something inside her, then slipped another finger in. She was so full it was almost uncomfortable. Both of them left her, leaving her aching and empty. Her hips bucked as if trying to keep him there.

Without breaking his intense glare, he put his hands in his mouth and sucked. She was entranced. The world could have ended and she wouldn’t have known that she died. Something primal overcame her. She was no longer a broken girl, but simply a woman with a man.

Her lover grew still, his eyes darkening at whatever he saw in her own. His own animal instincts were battling within him. Silently, roughly, with more force than he’d shown thus far, he ripped her out of the water and onto the edge. He kneeled on the seat, then began moving his fingers in and out while his thumb rubbed at that incredible spot.

The sounds were ungodly. The noise her body made, the noise her mouth made. She had one foot in pain and the other in pleasure and she never wanted to move.

The desire was reaching a precipice. She was afraid to find what was on the other side. But when her husband stopped rubbing and tugged hard at that bundle of nerves, delirium reigned. A warm, soothing force flooded her body. It went all the way from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Her muscles tensed and then relaxed, turning her into a pool of liquid.

Oberyn pulled back and she shivered at the loss of contact. He cleaned his hands with a towel before he wiped between her thighs. She should have been embarrassed but couldn’t quite bring herself to care about anything.

Suddenly, his voice bounced off the mirrors and she startled awake. She hadn’t even known she’d dozed off.

“I’m dry now, little virgin.”

Dry he may have been, but he was still as naked as his name day. His body was lithe and lean and hard. And oddly hairless. Most Northern men had more hair on their chests and beards than their heads. It must have been cumbersome in the heat of Dorne. Any thought of cultural differences was swept aside when her eyes landed on his manhood, tall and proud against his flat stomach. She gulped and looked away, frightened and angry and strangely excited. There was no reason for it to make her giddy with anticipation. It wasn’t exactly the prettiest feature of his body.

Apparently, her mortification was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. An eternity passed before he held out his hand for her. She took it grudgingly and wrapped a towel around herself when she’d climbed all the way out.

“Red Viper indeed,” she muttered, wringing the water out of her hair. This sent him into another wave of laughter. It took her a moment, but when she realized what she’d said, she began furiously protesting. It made him laugh even harder.

Finally, after he wiped tears from his eyes, he kissed her gently on the forehead.

“Come, let’s get you to bed.”

Sansa allowed her husband to pull her through the bathhouse. He still hadn’t put on a towel.

Wordlessly, his strong hands maneuvered her head to the pillow and the blanket over her naked body. He climbed in beside her, curling his arm around her waist. Drowsiness was as thick as honey just then.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured into the darkness. His breath tickled her neck.

“Whatever for?” she asked. Her words were hardly more than a siege.

“I should have been gentle.”

Sansa tried to turn to look at him, but he held her still. Instead, she took his calloused hand in both of hers and cradled it to her chest. “I am a wolf, Prince of Dorne. We do not break easily.”

“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.”


End file.
